See you not how shape and order
From the wild confusion grow,
As he makes his shuttle go?—
As the web and woof diminish,
Grows beyond the beauteous finish,-
Tufted plaidings,

Shapes, and shadings;
All the mystery

Now is history ;—

And we see the reason subtle,

Why the weaver makes his shuttle
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.
See the MYSTIC WEAVER Sitting
High in heaven-His loom below;
Up and down the treadles go;
Takes for web the world's long ages,
Takes for woof its kings and sages,
Takes the noble and their pages,
Takes all stations and all stages,-
Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle;
Armies make them scud and scuttle;
Web into the woof must flow,
Up and down the nations go,
As the weaver wills they go;
Men are sparring,

Powers are jarring,

Upward, downward, hither, thither, Just like puppets in a show.

Up and down the web is plying,

And across the woof is flying,

What a battling!

What a rattling!

What a shuffling!

What a scuffling!

As the weaver makes his shuttle
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

Calmly see the MYSTIC WEAVER,
Throw his shuttle to and fro;
Mid the noise and wild confusion,
Well the weaver seems to know
What each motion

And commotion,

What each fusion

And confusion,

In the grand result will show,

As the nations,

Kings and stations, .

Upward, downward, hither, thither,
As in mystic dances, go.

In the present all is mystery;
In the past, 'tis beauteous history.
O'er the mixing and the mingling,
How the signal bells are jingling!
See you not the weaver leaving
Finished work behind, in weaving?
See you not the reason subtle,
As the web and woof diminish,
Changing into beauteous finish,
Why the Weaver makes his shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle?
Glorious wonder! what a weaving!
To the dull beyond believing!
Such, no fabled ages know.
Only Faith can see the mystery,
How, along the aisle of history
Where the feet of sages go,
Loveliest to the purest eyes,
Grand the mystic tapet lies,—
Soft and smooth, and even spreading
As if made for angels' treading;
Tufted circles touching ever,
Inwrought figures fading never;
Every figure has its plaidings.
Brighter form and softer shadings;
Each illumined,-what a riddle!
From a cross that gems the middle.
'Tis a saying-some reject it—
That its light is all reflected;
That the tapet's hues are given
By a sun that shines in heaven!
'Tis believed, by all believing,
That great God himself is weaving,—
Bringing out the world's dark mystery,
In the light of truth and history;
And as web and woof diminish,
Comes the grand and glorious finish;

When begin the golden ages

Long foretold by seers and sages.

THE FAITHFUL LOVERS.

I'd been away from her three years--about that-
And I returned to find my Mary true;

And thought I'd question her, nor doubted that
It was unnecessary so to do.

'Twas by the chimney corner we were sitting;
"Mary," said I, “have you been always true?"
"Franky," says she,- just pausing in her knitting,-
"I don't think I've unfaithful been to you;
But for the three years past I'll tell you what
I've done then say if I've been true or not.

"When first you left, my grief was uncontrollable, Alone I mourned my miserable lot,

And all who saw me thought me inconsolable,
Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershott;
To flirt with him amused me while 'twas new;
I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you?
"The next-oh! let me see-was Freddy Phipps,
I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide;
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips met lips,
He gave me his first kiss,”—and here she sighed ;
"We stayed six weeks at uncle's-how time flew!
I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you?

"Lord Cecil Fossmore, only twenty-one,

Lent me his horse. Oh, how we rode and raced!
We scoured the downs, we rode to hounds-such fun!
And often was his arm around my waist-
That was to lift me up or down. But who
Would count that unfaithfulness. Do you?

"Do you know Reggy Vere?

Ah, how he sings!
We met 'twas at a picnic. Ah, such weather!
He gave me, look, the first of these two rings,
When we were lost in Cliefden woods together.
Ah, what happy times we spent, we two!
I don't count that unfaithfulness to you.

"I've got another ring from him. D'you see
The plain gold circle that is shining here?"
I took her hand: "Oh, Mary! can it be
That you"-quoth she, "That I am Mrs. Vere.
I don't count that unfaithfulness, do you?"
"No," I replied, "FOR I AM MARRIED, TOO."

HIGH ART-MUSIC.-MAX ADELER.

I have been studying the horn to some extent myself. Nothing is more delightful than to have sweet music at home in the evenings. It lightens the burdens of care, it soothes the ruffled feelings, it exercises a refining influence upon the children, it calms the passions and elevates the soul. A few months ago I thought that it might please my family if I learned to play upon the French horn. It is a beautiful instrument, and after

hearing a man perform on it at a concert I resolved to have one. I bought a splendid one in the city, and concluded not to mention the fact to any one until I had learned to play a tune. Then I thought I would serenade Mrs. A. some evening and surprise her. Accordingly, I determined to practise in the garret. When I first tried the horn I expected to blow only a few gentle notes until I learned how to handle it; but when I put the mouth-piece to my lips no sound was evoked. Then I blew harder. Still the horn remained silent. Then I drew a full breath and sent a whirlwind tearing through the horn; but no music came. I blew at it for half an hour, and then I ran a wire through the instrument to ascertain if anything blocked it up. It was clear. Then I blew softly and fiercely, quickly and slowly. I opened all the stops. I puffed and strained and worked until I feared an attack of apoplexy. Then I gave it up and went down stairs; and Mrs. A. asked me what made me look so red in the face. For four days I labored with that horn, and got my lips so puckered up and swollen that I went about looking as if I was perpetually trying to whistle. Finally, I took the instrument back to the store and told the man that the horn was defective. What I wanted was a horn with insides to it; this one had no more music to it than a terra-cotta drainpipe. The man took it in his hand, put it to his lips and played "Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer," as easily as if he were singing. He said that what I needed was to fix my mouth properly, and he showed me how.

After working for three more afternoons in the garret the horn at last made a sound. But it was not a cheering noise; it reminded me forcibly of the groans uttered by Butterwick's horse when it was dying last November. The harder I blew, the more mournful became the noise, and that was the only note I could get. When I went down to supper, Mrs. A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning. She said she guessed it came from Twiddler's